


Enough To Win

by flowersandteeth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Peter Parker, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, Romance, Size Kink, Smut, Starker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Top Tony Stark, WinterIronSpider, winteriron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersandteeth/pseuds/flowersandteeth
Summary: For the anon who wanted a prompt based on this:TIL Milton Berle, considered America’s first TV star, had a massive penis. In his autobiography, Berle tells of a man who accosted him in a steam bath and challenged him to compare sizes, leading a bystander to remark, “go ahead, Milton, just take out enough to win”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 397
Collections: Marvel(ous)Universe





	Enough To Win

**Author's Note:**

> Starker action, pre-WinterIronSpider
> 
> Post-Civil War AU, no Infinity War/Endgame (everyone is friends and they live in the tower and nothing hurts)  
> Peter’s 20-21.
> 
> _And away we go…_

Peter shouldn’t be here. He should be getting up and exiting the room as quickly and casually as possible, but he can’t seem to move.

Clint groans again. “Come _onnn_ , Stark, it’s _bullshit_ , we know it’s _bullshit_ –”

“You’re pushing pretty hard for something you think is ‘bullshit’, Birdbrain.”

Tony’s parked on the couch beside Bucky, not quite pressed into the soldier’s side, but close enough it’s obvious to anyone within sight they’re used to being a lot closer. The billionaire’s relaxed, sitting with his right ankle resting on his left knee (the closest he ever gets to really crossing his legs; Peter definitely hasn’t noticed), a bland, almost bored look on his face.

It’s a ‘guy’s night’, which includes ‘the guys’ and ‘the women who could beat up most of the guys’ (Natasha) and they’re all in varying stages of inebriation…okay, they’re all fairly drunk after several rounds of Cards Against Humanity (Plus Alcohol). And it’s come up, again. Repeatedly. For the last fifteen minutes.

 _It_. The rumor. The (alleged) elephant’s trunk in the room.

Peter flushes at his own silent joke, thankful he’s at least sober enough to not have blurted it outright.

“I’m juss saying,” Clint continues, “juss do the big reveal so we can all quit wondering–”

“No one else is wondering,” Rhodey says flatly from the armchair across the room.

“–if it’s _bullshit_.”

When Clint pauses, arching his brows in a ‘I’m about to try and poke this bear’ way, Peter nearly finds the will to get up from his end of the couch.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t get up, and Clint keeps talking.

“I mean…it could be an ego thing. Maybe you’re overcompensating. The tower, all the cars. That’s a thing.”

Peter winces, twisting his beer bottle in his hands and shooting a glance down the couch at Tony.

The billionaire doesn’t look the least bit bothered by any of it. Nothing is landing, nothing is provoking the reaction the archer’s obviously trying for. Tony doesn’t even look smug; just a little amused, now, and slightly flushed from the scotch he’s been drinking, the corners of his mouth ticking up like he’s trying not to laugh.

Or maybe trying not to say something just the right side of condescending, something cutting to put Clint in place, to shut him down with a few words delivered with delicious, pointed efficiency–

Okay, Peter absolutely has to stop that train of thought because it’s going to barrel through his layers of denial, and he’s going to imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that (but a little softer, a little more teasing), and then he’s just going to be hard and aching on the couch only a few feet from the object of his fantasy.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Clint suggests with the tenacity of the hammered.

Tony snorts, and the sound ricochets up and down Peter’s spine. Not because it’s sexy in the slightest, but because it’s a reaction–and if Tony’s reacting, that means he’s being convinced that this might actually be an interesting course of action, and he might actually do it.

Peter shifts in his seat, and starts trying to figure out the best way to get up and leave without flicking on a giant neon sign that says ‘I’M RUNNING BECAUSE I’M GOING TO GET AN ERECTION OVER THIS’.

“What are you, twelve?” Tony asks, taking another sip of scotch.

Clint just jogs his brows and grins. “Afraid mine’s bigger?”

Natasha sighs from beside Steve where they’re sitting on the floor against the wall. Peter silently agrees.

It’s so stupid, so ridiculous and high school; and of course, it’s when everything comes crashing down. Peter watches it happen, just past where Tony’s relaxing in his seat, watches everything cave with a smirk that curves Bucky’s lips.

“Fuck it,” the soldier says, legs falling wider, as though he’s the one packing (he might be; Peter’s definitely never wondered about that, either). “Why don’t you just show ‘em, doll? He’ll shut up and we can get back to playin’.”

Tony gives Bucky a look, but there’s no stopping this.

Peter can’t quit glancing between Bucky’s lazily satisfied smile and the metal fingers sliding up from the back of the couch to brush up Tony’s nape, and then–

“Just take out enough to win,“ Bucky says.

Steve chokes on a swig of beer. Tony looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and also like he’s Ready To Do The Thing. Rhodey sighs with a weariness that makes Peter wonder for a fleeting moment what college with Tony was like–

–and then Peter remembers _he cannot be here for this_.

He goes to stand, but Tony’s already rising from his seat.

There’s suddenly no air in the room, Peter can’t _breathe_. Everyone else is whistling or protesting, and Tony hasn’t even reached for the fly of his jeans, yet, but Peter’s eyes are already aimed downwards, already searching for the outline of the bulge.

It’s a familiar path; his eyes flick over it frequently when he’s with Tony in the lab…or when they’re hanging out together at the compound, or at home in the tower…ninety percent of the time they’re together, really.

It’s easy to ignore the bantering that starts up among the group, the charged but still ridiculous game of chicken taking center stage, while Peter is glued to his own seat by the acute need to see.

And then here’s a flicker of movement past Tony’s hips, and Peter realizes staring is probably not something he should be doing in direct sight of Tony’s boyfriend; his hot, supersoldier boyfriend of the last few months, who’s staring at Peter like he knows exactly how familiar Peter wants to get with Tony’s bulge and…smirking? Staring back at Peter with grey-blue eyes that burn like a physical touch–

“OKAY, okay,” Rhodey calls out above the cacophony of voices, making Peter flinch and sit back, breaking his eye contact with Bucky. “Come on, man, both of you, that’s enough–Nice boxers, Barton, but pull your damn pants back up–”

Clint and Rhodey quickly become the main spectacle, but Peter’s not looking at them. He’s watching as Tony resettles on the couch–

–and then Bucky and Tony are both looking over at him speculatively (because of course Tony noticed the staring, too, _of course_ he did).

It’s too much.

Peter puts his beer down on the coffee table, stands from the couch, and beelines for the elevator, pulse pounding in his ears.

Too much hope, too much want, too close to a fantasy to be anything in the vicinity of a ‘good idea’.

He spends the ride up from the common floor trying to forget what he can’t have.

*****

Peter knows the rumors are true.

Not from personal experience or anything; he’s never actually seen it-seen it. He’s just closer to Tony than the other Avengers–closer to him than most other people (excepting Rhodey, Pepper, and of course, Bucky)–and it means Tony’s more relaxed around him. This translates into relaxed clothing: sweats, flannels, jeans so old they’re soft to the touch. A lot of pants that aren’t tailored to leave things to the imagination.

But when Peter wakes up–faintly hungover after the near-disastrous game night–and wanders out of his room and into the penthouse kitchen, he’s treated to his very favorite view.

Tony’s at the counter, sleep-ruffled and relaxed, a StarkPad in his hands and a steaming mug beside him…and he’s only in a t-shirt and boxer briefs.

It’s something Peter only sees in brief (hah) moments, on mornings like this when they both happen to be up way too early. In just underwear, the size is so much more obvious; the fabric already looks strained, stretched, and Tony’s not even hard, yet–

Yet? Jesus.

“Morning, Pete.”

Peter jolts, drags his eyes up to find Tony looking at him.

The billionaire smirks. “You good?”

He’s not. He’s really not, not when he’s watching the downward trajectory of Tony’s free hand, how the fingers pluck up the hem of the billionaire’s shirt to scritch lightly at his stomach, flashing the waistband of his boxer briefs and the well-kept line of dark hair that disappears into them. A line that serves as a guide right back to where Peter’s eyes always seem to catch.

It just seems…not too big, but still almost unnaturally large; a soft, curved weight in snug red fabric, pushing out and hanging down between the tops of Tony’s (also delicious) thighs.

Peter swallows, clears his throat. “Yeah, no, I’m–yeah. Good morning, Tony,” he says, face getting hot.

“I’m up here, kid.”

 _Holy fuck, oops._ Peter looks up (again–god, he’s being obvious, but it’s so har– _difficult_ , so difficult for him to drag his eyes away; even shocked, even embarrassed).

Tony’s amusement fills out with a lazy kind of heat. “Keep looking at it like that and it’s gonna wake up.”

Peter’s stuck wanting to choke on a laugh or a moan; the sound that does escape is little more than a strangled huff of air.

It’s maybe only eight o’clock, the morning light drenching the kitchen in cool autumn grey and faint shadow. Tony’s gazing at him, and Peter ponders the likelihood that this is a dream, or that he’s just tired enough to imagine the bedroom eyes Tony’s giving him.

“Sorry,” he manages.

“I didn’t say it bothered me,” Tony says, the corners of his mouth ticking up further.

Peter only came out for some coffee, and now he’s standing here wishing he’d pulled on a pair of sweats over his boxers. He just needs his brain to wake up, but the coffee pot is right next to Tony, and nothing is fair–

“It really doesn’t,” a familiar Brooklyn accent drawls from behind Peter.

Bucky (shirtless and in a pair of low-slung flannel pajama pants; because, again, nothing is fair) steps around and beelines for the coffee pot. “Quit teasing, doll,” he says to Tony, following it up with a peck to his lips. “Just take him to the room and let him have it already.”

This time Peter definitely does choke. “What–”

“Hey, flirting is an integral part of the process,” Tony protests, setting down the tablet and picking up his mug, arching his brows accusingly at his boyfriend. “You’re murder-strutting all over the process.”

“I’m just gettin’ you where you’re trying to go faster than you’re gettin’ there. And ‘m not ‘murder-strutting’.”

“That’s all you do, pre-coffee. It’s sexy. Even when you’re trampling on my best-laid plans.”

“Um,” Peter says.

Bucky twists, smirking unabashedly. “Morning, sweetheart. Lookin’ to get that show you missed last night?”

And that’s just…enough.

“What is _happening?_ ” Peter pleads.

It’s so much, and he _still_ hasn’t had his coffee, and now he wants to say ‘fuck it’ entirely and go back to bed, before it’s too late for him to write this off as the practical joke it must be.

Except the couple are looking at him like they _know_ , and it’s making Peter feel like he’s missed more than the ‘show’.

…Maybe he has.

Maybe he’s been willfully ignoring any and all signs that the feelings might be mutual.

Maybe he’s spent the last several weeks convincing himself there’s nothing significant about Tony letting him keep his room in the penthouse, even after Bucky moved in.

Maybe he’s been deliberately talking himself out of acknowledging the glances, the smiles, the warm looks. From Tony. From both of them. The way their lives just…started to include his.

And he’s maybe, possibly also been pretending he hasn’t been desperate to see (feel) firsthand how accurate the rumors about Tony’s…endowment, are, exactly.

(He’s imagined the weight of it in his hands, on his tongue, pushing into his throat. He’s literally dreamed of it being the first thing to sink inside his body, to stretch him open and fill him up in ways he’s never been filled.

It’s had him so impossibly, ridiculously fixated–on Tony’s cock, on the man attached to it, and the ex-assassin attached to _him_ –and he’s been sure there is no way he could have any of it.)

…So, yeah, he’s maybe–possibly–missed some things. Sort of on purpose.

But Bucky and Tony clearly haven’t missed a single thing.

Bucky snorts gracelessly, doesn’t answer, just grins and turns to kiss Tony. Metal fingers slip under the billionaire’s shirt, rucking it up just enough Peter can see them caress Tony’s hip.

“Flirt later,” Bucky admonishes Tony when they break apart, “Kiss him now.”

“Pushy,” Tony retorts.

“I need to brush my teeth, first,” Peter says faintly.

*

He does get time to brush his teeth–

(“Use our bathroom.”

“Now who’s ‘pushy’.”)

–and he’s glad, because when he opens the door back into the master bedroom, it becomes apparent Tony’s taken the ‘flirt later’ to heart.

Peter inhales sharply as he’s tugged forward by the hips, but where he’s expecting a flurry of motion, there’s only the firm-soft press of lips and the teasing swipe of a tongue across the seam of his, and then Tony’s pulling back enough to look at him.

“Minty,” Tony says, smirking.

Peter huffs a laugh, heat crawling into his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says, flushing deeper.

Tony hums, low and warm. “Fuck, kid,” he murmurs, “look at you…”

One of his hands comes up to brush Peter’s cheek, dropping to skate fingertips along his jaw and down to his throat, Tony’s eyes following before flicking back up to Peter’s.

Scrutiny at this distance should be overwhelming, too much, and it kind of is–but Peter’s so very okay with it, okay with being lost in the coffee-mint scent of Tony’s breath and the faint musk on the older man’s skin, left over from being entwined with Bucky for the night.

 _Speaking of_ …

"Where’s…um…” Peter takes a breath. “Is this okay?”

“We talked about it. Figured you might be more comfortable with a little one-on-one before anything too crazy.”

A laugh slips past Peter’s lips, semi-hysterical; they’ve casually discussed this. What the hell has he been doing this whole time?

Tony gives him this soft, amused look, and then he’s kissing him again, deeper than the first, crowding him back slowly against the wall beside the door.

It doesn’t even occur to Peter to point out that there’s a perfectly good bed maybe ten feet from where they’re standing. The kiss is unhurried and luxurious, Tony’s fingers sliding into the hair at Peter’s nape and directing him where he wants. The hand still at Peter’s hip tugs him until they’re pressed flush together, and wow that’s–

Peter makes a garbled whining sound, tilting his head back against the wall to take a breath.

_Big. Huge. Hard._

_Fuck_.

Tony rocks against him again, and when Peter hisses out a curse and opens his eyes, it’s to a smug, dark gaze.

“What was that, Pete?”

“Mm,” is all Peter can manage, and he’s glad Tony likes the blush, because he’s sure he’s going to spend most of this encounter with his face and neck completely on fire.

“Use your words, baby.”

Peter frowns before he can catch himself. Words, really? He wants Peter to talk right now?

Tony’s smirk turns into a grin. “I’ll talk, then.”

He ducks his head to press a kiss to the side of Peter’s throat, soft and lingering, and then another, trailing them upwards to the corner of Peter’s jaw, and the next words are murmured directly into his ear.

“ _I want to ruin you_.“

Peter inhales, twists his fingers into Tony’s shirt.

Tony noses at his jaw. “You want that, too? You want to see if you can take it?”

It should be the worst line to ever pass a person’s lips. It would be. But when it’s said by Tony Stark, and backed up by the hard, hot line of his cock pressed to Peter’s stomach…well, now Peter just wants to know if he can.

They’re men of science, after all; he’s damn well going to try.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “please. I…I want it–” he gasps when Tony nips at his throat, “–You. That.”

“Mmm. Good boy.”

Peter shivers, and then Tony’s kissing him again, lazy and deep, coaxing Peter’s lips apart. His tongue curls into Peter’s mouth as his hands glide, warm and sure, under Peter’s shirt and up his stomach, his waist, around his back to wrap him tight and pull him closer.

If it all stopped here, with just a few words, with just the confirmation that they both want this (that Tony actually, really, truly, wants him back) and minutes of this, the electric feeling and Tony’s tongue in his mouth, Peter would be happy.

He is happy. This would be enough.

…And then Peter tentatively slides his hands into Tony’s hair, and Tony makes a pleased sound into the kiss. Broad hands slide from Peter’s back and down into his boxers, and Peter has a fleeting thought about hand size (and what people say about it), and then he’s being urged by the dual, massaging grip on his ass to grind forward against Tony’s third-fucking-leg, and it’s all very abruptly not enough.

“I know, baby,” Tony murmurs against Peter’s lips in teasing sympathy, and Peter’s not sure what sound he made to warrant that response, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t know; if he feels this needy, it must’ve been pretty bad.

They end up on the bed, somehow–after several feet in which they only stop touching long enough to pull shirts over heads and actually make it onto the mattress–and then Peter’s on his back, Tony kneeling between Peter’s spread thighs, looking down at him like–fuck, like this isn’t a one-off thing.

Like maybe Tony feels it, too–the intimacy of the rumpled blankets and skewed pillows, the mingling soft scents of Bucky and Tony in the sheets. How the soft grey light from the overcast morning sky, a little brighter than before, is spilling through the parted floor-to-ceiling curtains and somehow making everything feel sleepy and private and a little dreamy.

And for a split second, the enormity is terrifying, because it really doesn’t feel all that different. It’s the brighter, hotter version of what he feels when he shares a couch with Tony, when they’re watching TV, or eating two out of three meals together almost every day. The same feeling he gets when they do any of the other things they’ve done that Peter’s spent so much time convincing himself mean nothing.

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” Tony asks, sliding his hands up Peter’s thighs.

Peter shakes his head, not ready to say. Thankfully, Tony seems to get it.

“Let me bring you back, then,” he says.

And he does. Pulls Peter back into the moment by slipping fingers under the waistband of Peter’s boxers, by smiling when Peter lifts his hips to make it easier to slide them off. The air is cool, but Tony’s mouth is hot and wet, and there’s no way for Peter to focus on anything but the silky-moist sweep of Tony’s tongue over the head of his cock.

When Tony sucks him down–minutes, hours, an eternity later–slow and savoring, and Peter can feel Tony swallowing around him, he is entirely present, one hand in Tony’s hair, the other tangled with the billionaire’s on the sheets beside his hip.

He’s right on the edge, teetering–

And then lubed fingers (where did the lube come from, Peter’s not paying attention) press between his cheeks, the tip of one pushing just past his rim, and that’s it.

He bursts, spills into the convulsing heat of Tony’s throat with a near-pained gasp.

Tony pulls off slowly with a parting kiss to the head that makes Peter flinch and whimper a little, a sound Tony shushes comfortingly, squeezing their joined hands and petting Peter’s hip with the other, before he leans up to press another kiss to Peter’s lips.

“You want more?”

Breathlessly, Peter nods.

*

When Peter tells Tony he’s been waiting, Tony’s expression goes completely blank for a moment.

“Nothing.”

Peter shakes his head.

“Fingers? Toys?”

“Nothing,” Peter confirms.

Tony shuts his eyes, exhales, and leans in to press his forehead to Peter’s. “You’re gonna kill me, kid.”

He preps Peter agonizingly slowly. Kisses him the whole time; the insides and tops of his thighs, up Peter’s stomach and onto his chest, goatee rasping over increasingly sensitive skin. Licks and sucks and bites at his nipples, first carefully and then with more force when it makes Peter writhe on Tony’s fingers.

And, _fuck_ , Tony’s _fingers_.

Peter’s still a little disappointed that the first thing to penetrate him isn’t the absolute monster still confined under the soft fabric of Tony’s underwear, but it’s hard to be completely let down when Tony’s so good with his digits. So careful when he needs to be, but not so careful there isn’t a sting mixed in with the pleasure, pain that feels so sweet because it’s accompanied by praise murmured into his skin, Tony cooing softly and telling him how good he’s being, how glad Tony is to be the first to do this to him, for him.

By the time they get up to four fingers, Peter’s had to stop Tony multiple times, beg him not to make him cum again, not yet, because he wants the next time to be when Tony’s inside him.

Tony seems pretty on board with the idea.

Peter whimpers when he’s no longer being filled, feels empty and weirdly lonely for a moment before Tony crawls over him and licks into his mouth, sloppier, more forceful, but no less skilled.

When Tony reaches over to tear a condom off the strip (he’d dropped a handful on the bed beside them–alongside the bottle of lube Peter hadn’t noticed–before he’d started prepping Peter, the foil squares spurring Peter on and making him feel strange, at the same time), Peter takes a chance.

“Do we have to use one?”

Tony pauses, arches a brow, but he doesn’t look upset.

“I mean,” Peter hurries on, “I’ve done things with people before, but not in a really, really long time–like a year–and I got tested since, and I’m clean, and…if you are, if Bucky is…we could just not? Use one, if that’s okay? I just…” he swallows, “I just really want to feel you.”

For a long moment, Tony’s expression is unreadable, and then he’s crawling over Peter again and caging him into the bed, practically growling into a quick, aggressive kiss.

“ _Killing me,_ ” Tony enunciates when he pulls back, staring down at Peter with this helplessly amused heat. “FRI, check in with Tasty Freeze.”

Peter doesn’t have to hold his breath long.

_“Sergeant Barnes gave the go-ahead, boss.”_

Tony buries his face in Peter’s neck and groans, and Peter answers in kind when Tony’s hips roll down, his substantial, still-clothed length sliding slow and rough alongside Peter’s.

Somehow shyness still manages to leach in. Not nearly enough to turn Peter away from this; just enough to make his hands tremble slightly when he slides them down Tony’s sides, tugs tentatively at the waistband of the boxer briefs Tony should definitely not be wearing, anymore.

He feels Tony’s smile against his throat, goatee pleasantly rough against the skin there and making Peter shiver. Tony nuzzles at him before pulling back enough to give him a peck on the lips, and then another, and another, soft kisses that do nothing but make Peter squirm.

They ease the fabric off Tony’s hips together, hands brushing, and it’s sweet, sweet and anticipatory and intimate–and then there’s nothing between them, and Peter moans, arching his hips up involuntarily and clinging to Tony’s back.

Peter can feel it; hot, velvety-soft skin over hardness, the length laying heavy beside the inner curve of his left hip, the head smearing precum across his belly. He rocks up into it mindlessly, barely hears Tony’s strained huff of laughter before his hips are being pinned to the mattress, stilled by warm, calloused hands.

Tony kisses him hard, once, twice, smiling into it.

“Fuck, Pete, sweetheart–I’m gonna shoot all over your stomach if you keep that up.”

…Which does nothing to encourage Peter to keep still, draws out an embarrassing sound at the thought.

Tony’s lips brush the corner of his mouth in another smiling kiss before the older man sits back on his heels, pulls Peter in by his hips to keep him close.

“Besides,” Tony says, “I thought you wanted to see.”

Oh, _man_ , does he. Peter nods quickly with a breathless ‘please’, looking down his body.

Peter’s not under any illusions about his own size; he’s average, at best. Like every guy, he’d gone through the phase of worrying over it when he was a little younger, but overall, he’s pretty alright with what he’s working with.

Tony fucking _dwarfs_ him.

“Fuck,” Peter breathes, “Tony…”

The flushed, nearly plum-sized head sits a few inches past Peter’s, shiny-wet at the tip, more precum beading down in a thin clear line to the pale skin of Peter’s stomach, where there’s a patch of it already smeared from them rutting together. When Tony pushes forward, the slick smears further, just past Peter’s belly button.

A tremor of something not unlike fear ripples down Peter’s spine, tingles low in his gut, makes his own ( _fuck_ , significantly smaller, but just as flushed and leaking) cock jump.

Makes his mouth water.

“Can I–” he swallows, tries again. “CanIseeifit’llfitinmymouth?”

Tony looks at him like he does in the lab when Peter makes a particularly impressive breakthrough, this sort of awed pride. Peter’s never going to see that expression the same way again; he’ll never be able to see it without thinking of this version, the one that includes Tony wetting his lips, the indulgent but almost predatory focus.

“Fuck, kid–I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Tony says, like he actually means it. He leans down and pulls Peter into a kiss, nips at Peter’s lower lip. “Next time, sweetheart, I promise.”

_Next time. Tony wants there to be a next time._

Chest aching, hope so big it hurts, Peter nods wordlessly.

*

Letting Tony urge him to lay back down in the cozy mess of the blankets and sheets is easy, even if Peter’s heart’s pounding behind his ribs, in his throat.

He’s always wanted Tony’s guidance, even after he stopped needing it. He’s become a teammate, instead of a charge, more partner than just a protege in the lab, in the field; but every instruction, suggestion, word of advice or praise…they all still hit Peter the way they have since the beginning.

He’d go anywhere Tony wanted him to. And right now, Tony wants him to roll onto his stomach, to let Tony slide a pillow under his hips, because _it’ll be easier the first time_ , Tony explains as he straddles Peter’s thighs, runs a hand down Peter’s spine.

 _First time, next time_ ; these reassuring words that ease tension away and wind Peter up at the same time, make it harder to lay still, make him want to rock back against the first press of the blunt head against his stretched rim.

“You ready?” Tony asks, and the words feel as big as everything else does, a hint of strain behind them, Tony holding back for Peter’s benefit.

Peter nods, and then moans into the mattress, taking twin fistfuls of the sheets at the first real pressure, his body parting, making way for–fuck, for _so much_ , and that’s just–that’s just the tip–

The thought makes a semi-hysterical laugh bubble behind his ribs, but it comes out as a gasp, real pain in the sound as he takes the stretch, his thoughts scattering, skittering away from him, pushed out of his mind by the panic that maybe he can’t take it–

“There you go, baby–I know it’s a lot, you’re doing so well for me, Pete, you can do it, you can take it–”

There’s something comforting in Tony’s almost-babbling, the now very much clear strain in his words, the pride that leaks through as Peter takes another inch slowly pushed into him, and then another.

The stretch _hurts_. Tony’s fingers are thick, and Peter had taken four, but this is–Peter feels more than full, and Tony’s still going, still easing, pressing inside him, thick and hot and impossibly big, gritting out praise and compliments and sounding almost as overwhelmed as Peter feels.

And then Tony bottoms out, and the pain ceases to matter completely.

Something inside Peter _ignites_ , white-hot, a delicious shock that radiates out from inside, tears a ragged, breathless sob from Peter’s throat. He cants his hips back to chase the feeling and registers Tony’s bitten-off curse and the press of the older man’s forehead against his nape, the hand that snaps to his hip, squeezing almost bruisingly tight.

“Fuck, Peter–”

“ _Please._ ”

Tony curses again, breath hot against the back of Peter’s neck. “‘M not going to last…”

“ _Don’t care_ , please, just–”

Nothing matters but the fullness, the drag as Tony pulls out and pushes back in to fill Peter again, Peter crying out at the same electric-hot burst as Tony’s cock drags along his prostate (his wonderful, magical prostate) again.

It’s all too much, all of it–the stretch, the way Peter feels like he’s shaped around the massive length, like if he were to look he’d see the bulge of Tony’s cock distending his stomach with every push–but the pace is languorous, smooth and careful and deep, and Tony’s still talking to him, brushing breathless kisses against Peter’s hair and the nape of his neck, massaging his hip and sliding a hand up along his waist, affection in every touch, every word.

And then he really starts talking.

“God, Pete,” Tony rasps, “you look so good stretched around me. I knew you wanted this. We both did.”

Fuck. Peter can barely think, he’s so lost, so close, the friction of the pillow against his cock and the loud, filthy-wet sounds of their joining pushing him higher and higher, and Tony keeps going.

“Bucky tells me–fucks me and talks about how you’re always looking…”

By now Peter’s mindlessly meeting Tony’s thrusts, sounds pouring from his lips as he loses rhythm at the thought, the image of Bucky inside Tony, that metal hand wrapped around Tony’s cock–

Tony huffs an incredulous, broken laugh. “Do you even know what you–fuck–what you look like when you stare, baby? You blush, you get so fucking red, and–God, Pete, sometimes you lick your lips like you’re not even–”

And then Tony cuts off with another curse, his hips connecting with Peter’s ass, once, twice, cock spearing almost brutally deep. The heat of him spilling inside pushes Peter over just as much as the too-much stretch, as much as the feeling of being entirely filled and taken and owned. Peter’s own cry is almost soundless, a strangled gasp as he cums, warm sticky and wet against his stomach and the pillow trapping his cock.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the mingling sounds of their breathing, both of them coming down. Tony starts to ease out of Peter’s body, but Peter whines sleepily (he’s so tired, absolutely wiped) and grabs at Tony’s wrist. “Not–not yet, please.”

Tony chuckles softly, breath washing over the skin between Peter’s shoulder blades just before the open-mouthed kiss Tony places there.

Peter lets himself be tugged carefully over onto his side, still full, Tony wrapping around him.

“You did so good,” Tony mumbles into Peter’s hair. “Feel amazing. So good, Peter.”

Glowing with the praise, Peter drifts off to sleep, Tony’s fingers tracing patterns low on his stomach.

*

The nap doesn’t last long; Peter wakes to Tony gently easing out of him, kisses brushing along his shoulders. He gets urged off the bed and onto slightly wobbly legs, wincing a little at the soreness.

He’s urged into the shower, where Tony cleans him, thoroughly and gently, washes his hair and soaps him down and massages him until he’s too relaxed to do anything but lean against Tony’s chest.

“Sorry, Pete,” Tony murmurs, genuine, but a little too pleased with himself to be entirely innocent, “I bet you’re really feeling it, huh?”

He slips two fingers inside Peter, a careful check for tearing that turns into Tony lazily, possessively stroking Peter’s insides, encouraging Peter to grind slowly until he cums against Tony’s stomach, Tony swallowing his gasp in a kiss.

They have to wash again, but it’s more than worth it.

*

Peter’s ready to curl back up in the sheets and blankets, even if it means laying back in the same mess–the bed’s huge, he’s sure they can just avoid anything sticky until they have the drive to actually clean–but when they step back into the room in just towels, the bed’s been remade, Bucky still bent at the edge, tucking in the last corner.

Peter stops short, stumbling slightly when Tony steps right into his back, the older man snorting softly and wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist to steady him.

Bucky turns, expression going from inquisitive to warm. “Hey,” he says, eyes dipping slowly down Peter’s body and back up. “Took care of the laundry; figured you’d be in no shape to do it yourself.”

The last part’s directed Peter with a smirk and a wink, a wink, and coming from Bucky Barnes, it actually works.

“Um. Thank you, Bucky,” he manages, face heating further at Tony’s amused huff from over his shoulder.

Bucky’s expression softens. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Just want you comfortable. I’ll leave you two alone–”

“What–no,” Peter says, taking a step forward, “I’d–you should stay. Please?”

“Good choice,” Tony says cheerfully, “he’s a great cuddler. Giant robot teddy bear.” His hand drops to squeeze Peter’s hip before pushing him gently towards the bed. “You’re the meat in the snuggle sandwich, kid. Go get comfy.”

A couple minutes later, Peter’s got Tony’s heat all along his back, Bucky’s along his front. Two hands, one flesh and one metal, trace patterns and stroke lazily along his stomach and his hips and his ribs.

It’s almost noon, the light still grey, and Peter dozes to the quiet patter of rain on the window and the feeling of home.

*****

The next game night, a week later and a couple shots in, Clint brings ‘it’ up again. Just once.

Tony and Bucky both look amused as Peter, between them, turns fire-engine red.

Clint nods sagely, flops over the arm of the couch and across all of their laps to give Peter a congratulatory fist-bump.

**Author's Note:**

> I have like a billion WIPs, but eventually I'd like to at least one other fic in this 'verse, maybe two; gotta get some WinterSpider and WinterIronSpider action going.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3
> 
> I'm starkerflowers on Tumblr, come follow me!


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